the art of tearing down walls
by Nygmatech
Summary: You wouldn't refer to yourself as sadistic, but Mello's quiet loneliness is possibly the most beautiful thing you've ever seen. Matt/Mello, Wammy's


the art of tearing down walls

With nowhere else to vent, the rosemary-scented steam always drifts out of the open bathroom door when Mello opens it, and even without looking you can tell that his skin is red from the hot water, because he's been in there for at least an hour, and even when he carefully wraps a towel around his waist and gets dressed like it's any other day, even when it isn't (it is), because Mello's upset again, and as he's dressing you turn your head, asking him a question with your eyes.

He looks away, because you gave up talking a long time ago, and pulls the sweater over his head, even though it's summer and already warm enough. He hugs himself, and somewhere in the back of your mind you analyze this before pushing it away.

"I'm tired," he says, and he's always tired.

He crosses the room and sits on the edge of his bed with his back away from you and his head lowered to his chest as his knuckles turn white from how hard he's gripping his arms through the black material.

You leave him alone, then, in favour of looking back at your game screens and filling the (silent) room with the sound of your fingers tapping on the buttons. It's of no consequence that whenever your living, breathing skin cells scream out for human contact he holds you, pets your hair, and whispers that everything will be alright (it isn't).

You're not normally a selfish person (you are), but you're only twelve and it's just that Mello is unapproachable, and you know he'll be alright by himself (he won't), because someone as smart as him must have figured out some way to put back all the pieces (he hasn't), even if they won't fit the same (they won't).

For the first time in your life, you consider calling out his name (you won't), just to let him know that you're there (you're not).

In the end, all it boils down to is another sleepless night while Mello curls up in his bed with all the blankets he can find wrapped around him, and you try to ignore the restless tossing and turning most often heard by such nights (you can't).

* * *

At thirteen, sleeping in the same bed isn't quite as innocent as it had been, and you really should have given up his habit a long time ago, because it isn't Mello that's crossing the room on light feet, not this time.

He's always tired, but he's always awake too, so there's no possible way Mello could have missed you crawling between his sheets, and this is the thing you most fear about Mello, as he wraps his arms tightly around you, pulling you as close as he can get because maybe for once you weren't being as selfish (you are), even if he is perfectly aware that it was another nightmare which prompted this, not any sudden burst of confidence or empathy.

But that's okay. He doesn't mind.

You only wish he wouldn't hold on so tight, because you're afraid if he grabs on, he'll never let go again. You wouldn't call yourself _sadistic_ (you would), but Mello's quiet loneliness is possibly the most beautiful thing you've ever seen, because how can something be so broken and yet so... poetic? So strong?

There are a hundred words that you could apply, but you find that you can't pick just one.

* * *

The end of one year brings another, and it's on this bridge between _thirteen_ and _fourteen_ that things start to get difficult, because suddenly Mello is more aggressive and moody, but you find that he's really only twice as tired and twice as alone and falls twice as hard.

You don't even want to mention what goes on in your mind, because all you want is to just be that same little kid you used to be, when everything was always for yourself and it was _okay,_ because you were a kid and kids are allowed to be selfish, because they don't know anything else, and right now you're teetering on the edge of that bridge, and you wouldn't like to admit it, but perhaps falling off of that bridge isn't such an adverse idea for you, as long as you have someone to catch you, of course (you're not sure if there is anymore, because Mello is falling right along with you).

And as he emerges from the small bathroom with a white towel wrapped around his waist, you wonder when the smell of rosemary became so (_intoxicating_) appealing, and when you had started to admire how Mello's hips swayed slightly as he walked, or the precise cerulean of his eyes as he sends you an icy look.

You realise a second too late that he's only glaring at you because he'd like to get dressed., and quickly avert your eyes back to the screen of your game, though there's a sudden boredom that settles in as you do, and for the first time in your life you don't want to play.

* * *

If there's one thing you're certain about Mello, it's that he gets rather angry as soon as grades come out, because Near _always_ beats him, and Mello hates coming in second, but somehow your roles are reversed that night, because Mello isn't raging when you enter the room, and just smiled faintly at you when you enter, from his spot on the couch. The window is open and the room is freezing cold, so you find it only natural to shut it, even as Mello's pained eyes follow your back.

(It's looking as if another night spend sprawled out on your bed playing your games, even though the desire _not_ to has not yet worn off).

"Matt?"

His voice is softer, quieter than you remember it, which brings you to attempting to remember the last time he actually spoke to you, directly to _you_ and not just a passing comment, but in any case you stare back at him through the orange-tinted goggles (or what you've learned to be orange, when really it isn't any different from _red_ or _yellow_). He asks silently if he can sit with you, and you understand this as him not wanting to be alone, because of all Mello's idiosyncrasies, that's the one that affects you the most, because somehow you've been forced into this equation even against your will, because you've always wanted to be alone.

You can feel the weight on the mattress beside you as he sinks down onto it, and everything is silent for a moment, even as his hands reach down to gently pluck the gaming system from your hands, and you send him a look like you really mind (you don't). His broken smile just intensifies as he looks away for a moment, and everything is silent as he drops the game system onto the table and you make no effort to retrieve it.

It's then that he leans over you, hands grasping your goggles and pushing them up off of your eyes and into your hair, because he always does this and you really wish you wouldn't, but it's never seemed this _intimate _before, because before you realise it he's crawled on top of you and is just resting there, with his hands on the covers on either side of your head, just looking down at you as you stare shocked back up at him.

But you can't be blamed, really, because even after you've spent so many nights curled up in his arms, it's never progressed to this, and you've never seen this quiet longing in his eyes (you haven't), because you can't have ignored it (you did).

He lowers his face so that the rosemary-scented blonde locks are falling in a curtain around you and him as they brush against your cheeks, because he's asking a question with his eyes again, the most available method of communication, and you know he's not going to move any closer but you're still _frozen_ there, because _"M… Mello…"_ and you don't want to move in (you do), because you're still so innocent (you never have been) and so young (fourteen), and why does he have to do this to you? Doesn't he know that if anything comes out of this, it would destroy the selfish wall you've surrounded yourself with, but then, Mello's very purpose seems to be breaking that wall, and you try to mind, you really do (you can't).

"_Don't think_," he says, and you don't.


End file.
